Wedding Night
by Pandorama
Summary: Wedding night…a strange little conundrum if you’ve had one before. Abby's somewhat humorous inner monologue post I Do.


_Abby's point of view of the wedding night (the one to Luka, of course)…I've never tried my hand at comedy and first-person terrifies me, so this is a totally new playing field for me. Not intended as complete canon, though I've tried to keep it in character. Read and review if you please and if something this risqué offends you, well, I posted the rating so that's that. Don't say I didn't warn you…_

**Wedding Night:**

From the Mind of a Newlywed (Again)

Wedding night…a strange little conundrum if you've had one before, knowing that even though all the stupid taboos of it being the first time and being the rest of your lives together are pure trash, wedding night sex has to be perfect, and the second time around, moreso. Call me crazy, but even I-won't-wear-white me had to go and psych herself out for it. Because as much as I hate Richard now, I loved him then, and it was pretty damned good with him that night. He wasn't anything special other nights, not really, but our wedding night, he was somehow different, and I'll admit right now I won't forget how hoarse I was from screaming his name by the end of the night. And Luka…Luka makes me scream like that every night. He's fantastic in bed, beyond fantastic; any woman would kill to have sex like this on a regular, if not more than regular, basis. Forget about cliché – the accent, the physique, those brooding good looks, the man can drive me completely crazy and then some. I've woken up mornings too sore and too tired to move all day, because he somehow got me in bed and didn't stop for hours. He can drive me up the wall like nobody I've ever known, and it's stupid and silly and not like me at all, but I want tonight to be something else, something special. And so the moment the clothing is off, my pulse is racing, throat dry, because I know it's just going to be as amazing as usual and that somehow disappoints me.

Typical sex-god-husband-of-mine has to do it right. He wanted to marry me and I said yes, and apparently that somehow makes us uneven, so he has to thank me somehow by making sure there's not a way in hell I'll move in the next week. His mouth explores every bare inch of skin, licking, kissing, nipping, and god, I already feel weak. The man can do foreplay. Hands, mouth, every part of him caressing every part of me until he works his way down to that spot I reserve for his touch only and kisses me where no one else has ever or will ever. Not Richard, who thought it was dirty unless my head was in his crotch, Carter who was too dignified for that sort of thing, every other guy I've been with, who I told not to even think about it, and then Luka came along and I swore after we broke up I'd never let another man do it because I'd end up screaming his name. And now he's back down there, lips brushing me, tongue deftly maneuvering, and my mind has completely liquefied before he's even started. Somebody must have put a curse or a blessing on that tongue, because it's like hot coals and ice and sandpaper and silk all at once, in me, around me, out of me, on me, drinking me up and making my head spin as I writhe and moan, which I know he loves, even though I couldn't stop it if I wanted. Then fingers, oh god, two, then three, sliding their way in me as the tongue focuses on that spot, and he's almost tickling me from within, but I don't want to burst in a thousand pieces when he tickles me. Teeth drag lightly over where the tongue was busy making me gasp and this time I scream by accident, grateful for seclusion. The man can make me scream. I can only thank god for thick walls and a child who won't wake up for anything short of a wrecking ball through the wall of the nursery.

He's being too perfect. Too much of his normal, fantastic self that makes me want to give up my day job so that I can spend more time – say twelve or fourteen hours a day – doing wonderfully scandalous things with him. But I don't want that same fantastic sex – my head is being truly irrational this evening and I can't shake the desire for this to be an experience unlike any other. So it's left to me…if I want this to be the night of all nights to remember, it's on me. Well, I'm on him. Or something of that nature. So I screw up my courage – talk about double entendres – and shove him off me very unceremoniously, onto his back, a perplexed sort of look on his face, and pull my most seductive, carnal, wild glare, lips pursed, toss my hair, and leap at him. Yes, leap. Onto the sex-god-husband I acquired only this evening. If I'm going to marry him, I'm going to do it right. Fireworks style. The man can do fireworks.

I can tell he's not quite sure what to think, though his body certainly seems to know where this is going. He looks at me for all of a fraction of a nanosecond – the way most women look at a really fantastic chocolate cake – before my tongue is halfway down his throat and we're rolling around on the messy sheets sucking the life out of one another. Like college, but with less beer and sexually transmitted diseases, and a lot more certainty that I won't regret this in the morning. Somehow I've got the same rush of energy as back then and I pin him to the bed as best I can and proceed to make damn sure we'll remember this. I'm pretty sure the neighbors will, too. And anyone in about a three-mile radius. The man can make me happy for the rest of my life, and I, for one, am going to see to it that it starts out right.


End file.
